


crashed my car into the bridge

by susiecarter



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: Antagonism, Bad Decisions, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Identity Issues, Identity Reveal, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Deceit, Mutual Manipulation, Post-Canon, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25367578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: A week before the next anniversary comes around, Tommy texts Lindy.It's going to be a sore subject. He's well aware of that. After the way he was surveilling her, using her, just to try to get closer to Bubonic—she's not going to appreciate this at all.But that first anniversary was bad enough. Tommy's going to need every advantage he can get if he's going to survive another one.
Relationships: Bubonic/Tommy Calligan
Comments: 21
Kudos: 30
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	crashed my car into the bridge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> ♥

A week before the next anniversary comes around, Tommy texts Lindy.

They've been in touch since she left town, obviously. She's texted him, now and then, just to let him know she's still out there—and occasionally to ask him a favor. Little stuff, stuff she can't do herself. Or, well, probably it's more of a courtesy. Odds are she's more than capable of hacking her way into any of the databases Tommy has official access to without blinking; she's cutting him a break, playing nice.

But it's the first time he's started the conversation, the first time he's the one texting her. He's been playing nice, too. He's been trying not to push. He wants her to know she can reach out to him if she needs to, even after everything.

It's going to be a sore subject. He's well aware of that. After the way he was surveilling her, using her, just to try to get closer to Bubonic—she's not going to appreciate this at all.

But that first anniversary was bad enough. Tommy's going to need every advantage he can get if he's going to survive another one.

_Got a second?_

There. Nice, neutral starting point.

It takes less than ten minutes for Lindy to come back with, _Sure. What's up?_

Tommy hesitates, thumbs hovering over his phone. All the habits he's always leaned on whenever he goes undercover are screaming at him to make this easy for her: work up to it, skirt around it, test the temperature. Back off, if she doesn't seem like she's going to go for it, and try again another time.

Except that's how he and Ben screwed Lindy over the first time around. He wants to do better than that.

_I know all you found at the bottom of the stairs in IRL last year was the Adam phone. But back when you were first trying to join the Outliers and work for him, did you ever meet him?_

One minute. Two. Three. Tommy's phone is silent.

And then, at last, a buzz and a notification.

_You think he'lll go after you again._

_Yeah_ , Tommy admits. _Almost exactly a year. I have to be ready. I know you have plenty of reasons to tell me to fuck off, but if there's anything you remember about him that might help, I'd be grateful for it._

Understatement. But he's pretty sure there isn't an emoji that's going to capture the wire-strung tension that's been tightening his shoulders as the date gets closer, the relentless creeping awareness that Bubonic's probably sitting in front of a keyboard right now and planning whatever it is he's going to do to Tommy next.

_Even if I had met him face-to-face_ , Lindy says after another minute and a half, _he wouldn't have let me walk out of there with a photo. What exactly do you think I can give you?_

_I don't KNOW_ , Tommy lets himself type, and then clenches his hands around his phone and makes himself breathe. He doesn't send it. He doesn't want to tell her that. He's just grasping for anything he can— _anything_ that might give him some kind of advantage here, no matter how small.

_You know his signatures_ , Lindy adds, before Tommy's had a chance to delete his own words and come up with something else. _You know how he thinks. And you know why he's doing this._

Tommy stares down at his phone, and goes cold. One letter at a time, he backspaces through the message he was never going to send, and then he writes out a new one and sends it immediately.

_Apparently I'm not the only one._

Because that didn't sound like an inference, and it didn't sound like a guess. Tommy knows for damn sure he never told her why exactly Bubonic hates him so much, and he's pretty sure Shaw didn't either. Yeager wouldn't. There aren't that many other people in the department who even know.

But there's someone else who does. And Bubonic—Bubonic wouldn't have had any reason to say a word to her about it two years ago. Before she had anything to do with Cyber Crimes. Before she'd even met Ben, never mind Tommy. Not long after it had happened in the first place, and Bubonic wouldn't have exposed a wound that fresh to someone who wasn't even on his team yet.

Last year, though? Last year, he'd have had plenty of motive to drive a wedge between Lindy and the rest of them.

And if Lindy lied about finding nothing but the phone he'd been using, if he _was_ in the boiler room with her, he'd have had the opportunity, too.

_He was there, wasn't he?_ Tommy sends, before Lindy's replied. _He was in IRL, and you saw him. You talked to him. He told you._

_He told me_ , Lindy agrees. And then, after another couple of seconds, _Can't say I blame him. If you'd let someone who mattered to me die without doing anything to stop it, I wouldn't have settled for ruining your life once a year._

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, swallows down half of a laugh that would have come out strangled to nothing anyway.

It isn't like he can argue. Nothing Bubonic can do to him is ever going to top the moment he'd walked into that cell in the morning and realized what he was looking at, what that woman had done to herself while he wasn't watching. How goddamn terrified she must have been, to think that was her only option—

_I know_ , he sends. _But he almost killed everyone in IRL last year._

Which hadn't included Tommy; in retrospect, it's obvious that Bubonic had been careful to make sure of that. He hadn't wanted it to be that quick. He'd wanted Tommy to be stuck outside with Shaw, knowing there was nothing he could do. Because that had been about twelve times worse than blowing up, and Bubonic had been well aware of it.

Tommy rubs at his mouth, and thumbs his phone again.

_Please, Lindy._

Nothing, for almost ten minutes this time.

_Curly hair_ , Lindy sends at last, and Tommy has to fight not to go right back to her saying he knows that one already, thanks. _Blue eyes. Tall, narrow_ , and come on, come on, there has to be something she can tell him that isn't obvious even when the guy's got a mask on. _Mouth slants a lot, even when he isn't really smiling. Nose a little short for the face. Upturned, kind of._

Tommy closes his eyes again, breathes in and then back out and tries to picture it. He's seen Bubonic's face in that mask of his a million times. The hair, the general shape of the face, the eyes—he's got that down. Even the mouth, occasionally. But not the nose, and never the sum of the parts. Lindy's description isn't exactly an ID that'll stand up in court, but if there's even a fraction of a chance he might be able to see Bubonic coming, then it's worth something.

It's—

Wait. _Wait_.

Holy fuck. He should have known. He should have known the instant he looked that smug bastard in the face.

It's been a year. It doesn't matter. That guy, the one who was still in his apartment when he got there: he remembers—god, he _remembers_ having taken a split second, even then, even when he had no idea what was going on or why, even with his gun raised, to be struck by those fucking eyes.

He'd let go of the thought almost immediately. He'd needed to figure out where his stuff was, where _Boris_ was. Who cared about the guy's eyes?

But now—no wonder they'd caught at him. No fucking wonder.

Jesus Christ.

A week. The longest goddamn week of his life.

All that tension, that prickling gravitational tug that's left his mind endlessly circling Bubonic, transmutes itself into a restless urgency that's impossibly hard to leash. He can't sit still, can't concentrate. He can't stop thinking about it: walking into his apartment that day, gun in his hands; raising it to shove it into _Bubonic's_ face, and not having the first fucking idea. He remembers the way Bubonic had startled, the way the pitch of his voice had risen, palms up in defensive surprise. Playacting harmlessness for all he was worth, and Tommy had _bought_ it, hadn't given him a second glance.

God, he must have thought it was so fucking funny. He must have laughed his head off, after Tommy left him there. And now that Tommy knows, it's burning him up.

A day in advance, Shaw orders him to go home and stay there, no exceptions—not even, she takes care to specify, for jogging. Tommy isn't surprised to hear it. He nods along with her reasoning, when she gives it. Trying at a bare minimum to keep him safe, and in the best-case scenario, Bubonic gets frustrated with the lack of action, the lack of access, and makes a mistake.

"And if he contacts you," Shaw adds, enunciating every word with deliberate precision, "you _tell me about it_. Immediately. Understood?"

"Understood," Tommy says, and doesn't let himself falter, meets her eyes as steadily as if he means it.

He doesn't. But she doesn't need to know that.

He had Bubonic right in front of him. Within arm's reach, for crying out loud. And if Tommy gets the chance to make that happen again, he's sure as hell going to take it.

The day itself passes in a haze.

Tommy's restless, sleep-deprived. He can't stop pacing. He doesn't eat breakfast; it's impossible to even think about it. He doesn't feel hungry, or if he does, he can't tell. It's too irrelevant for him to bother figuring out which.

Last year, there had been messages, signs. Bubonic had started off with a bang, first the apartment and then Boris, had sent Tommy hurrying out of IRL with a text and had had the pissed-off boyfriend prepped in advance, waiting to be deployed.

This year—this year, Tommy waits and waits and waits, and there's nothing.

It isn't because he's not in the office. He's pretty sure about that. He's remoted in to check his email already. Twice. If Bubonic somehow hadn't guessed where he was, that would have left a trail he'd have no trouble following.

It must not be time yet, that's all. There were gaps last time, too. Between when he'd gone to pick up Boris and the party at IRL, it had been hours. He just has to be patient.

Too bad that's not exactly his strong suit.

He jumps up at every buzz of his phone, every alert that pops up in the corner of his computer screen, every shout and laugh that filters in from the street outside.

And finally, _finally_ , in the late afternoon, he gets a text from an unknown number.

_happy anniversary_

_it's going to be so good to see you again, detective calligan_

_same place same time?_

Tommy stares down at the words, and blows out a breath. IRL, then. IRL, and—god, he remembers the text like it was yesterday, _MEET ME OUT BACK SO WE CAN TALK_ , but when had he gotten it? He isn't sure. A lot about that evening ended up a little fuzzy, what with the concussion and all.

The party hadn't gotten rolling until at least ten, though Tommy might already have been unconscious by then.

Won't hurt to be a little early, Tommy decides. And with any luck, now that he knows what Bubonic looks like, he's got half a shot at spotting him first.

* * *

He's been standing at the bar in IRL for half an hour, trying to decide whether or not to look like he's waiting for someone, when the debate gets solved for him.

An elbow slides in next to Tommy's on the bar. A throat's cleared, a little uncertainly. The voice—it's like a year ago was yesterday, like it's been no time at all since Tommy was clutching his gun and being told, _It—it was okay for anyone to take what they wanted—_

"So, uh, I don't know if you remember me? But just in case you do, I figured it might be a good idea to buy you a drink."

Long narrow fingers slide a glass across the bar until the cool curve of it is almost touching Tommy's wrist. Tommy looks down at it, and draws a slow breath.

He isn't going to freak out. He can't. He's not going to give up the advantage that easily. He's got to play this like he doesn't know, like he never found out. Like he doesn't have even the slightest clue who it is he's really looking at.

He turns.

It really is the same guy. Lindy's description was pretty good, Tommy evaluates distantly. Good enough for Tommy to recognize it, obviously—but when he had, it had been hazily, memory formed across about forty-five seconds of interaction when he'd had a lot more to worry about than whether he'd be able to identify the guy on sight a year later. But now Bubonic's in front of him again, and they're not standing in Tommy's empty apartment; Tommy's dog isn't facing down a hypodermic needle and a ticking clock. Tommy's got the time to actually look at him.

And, knowing, it's remarkably easy to fit that face into the space behind every plague doctor's mask that's ever laughed at Tommy out of a screen. The hair's the same, the eyes. The mouth—Bubonic had tilted his face far enough to show it to Tommy sometimes, the better to enunciate _Detective Calligan_ to the camera with that soft icy clarity he favored. But Tommy had never quite been able to put it together before.

Obviously, or he'd have recognized Bubonic the _first_ time Bubonic had been standing two fucking feet away from him.

Tommy looks at Bubonic, and doesn't grab him by the nape of the neck, doesn't slam his head down sideways into the surface of the bar. He doesn't twist Bubonic around by the arm and cuff him, and he doesn't punch Bubonic square in his smug fucking face.

He says, in a polite easy-going tone, "Look, thanks, but I—" and then stops. He raises an eyebrow, narrows his eyes a little like he's thinking it over, trying to figure out where he's seen the man standing in front of him before. He lets comprehension cross his face, widen his eyes, drag a quick inhalation into his throat. And then he tilts his mouth ruefully. "I don't know, man. I'm the one who held you at gunpoint. I think maybe if anybody owes anybody a drink, it's me."

And Bubonic— _Bubonic_ , Jesus fucking Christ—looks at Tommy with amusement, and smiles. "Get the next round, and we'll call it even?" he murmurs, just barely audible over the music.

Jesus, this brass-balled motherfucker. Tommy almost laughs his sheer disbelief right into Bubonic's face, has to bite down on it and look away to get the reaction under control. He covers by picking up the drink. The drink Bubonic bought him—and there's something about closing his hand around that glass, knowing Bubonic touched it, knowing Bubonic paid for it to give it to him, thinking Tommy would have no fucking idea who he was accepting it from, that makes Tommy want to savor it.

"Sure," he agrees aloud, and by the time he's facing Bubonic again, he's got a smile pinned on to match Bubonic's. "The thing is, I don't want to be rude, but I'm actually here to meet someone."

He lets his voice get a little tense, a little sharp. Exactly the way he'd have said it, thinking he was waiting here for a message from Bubonic, if it really had been some near-stranger who'd come up and started talking to him.

"Hey, I get it," Bubonic says readily, eyes wide and earnest. "No problem." His mouth quirks, nervous and self-deprecating, and jesus, how is he so good at this? "I can take a hint."

Tommy's stuck staring for a second. Bubonic doesn't mean that like it sounded—he can't have meant that like it sounded. Implying that the harmless nobody he's pretending to be was angling for—

Except he bought Tommy a drink. And coming from Bubonic it's a taunt, but coming from the guy who ended up in Tommy's apartment once by accident, it's a nice gesture that absolutely doubles as a move.

Jesus. Bubonic's got him figured out already, somehow. He has to. He knows Tommy knows, and this is his favorite kind of catch-22: either Tommy thanks him for understanding and lets him leave, keeps up the pretense of waiting while knowing Bubonic's just slipped through his fingers _again_ ; or he holds on, holds on but has to do it by—by acting like—by letting _Bubonic_ —

He thinks Tommy isn't going to do it, Tommy realizes. He thinks Tommy's going to blink first.

Fuck that.

Tommy seizes the hot anger filling up his chest, the sour sparking fury at Bubonic's sheer fucking gall, and uses it to make his smile warmer, deeper, bland friendliness giving way to something else. "No," he says, "no, man, I didn't mean it like that. I still owe you that drink. Just—sorry in advance, if we get interrupted whenever he does show up."

And coming from Tommy to a guy who'd bought him a drink, that "he" would have been deliberate, dropped on purpose to imply the guy should know he isn't barking up the wrong tree. He lets a little frustration leak into his tone, too; as if whoever he's waiting for is late, as if he's annoyed by it. As if he's glad to think somebody'll have picked him up by the time his delinquent date does arrive.

Bubonic's smile widens. "Well, in that case," he says, and holds out a hand. "I'm Charlie."

"Charlie," Tommy repeats, and shakes it—not brisk, not businesslike, but closing his own hand around Bubonic's with intent, lingering over it, holding on a little too long. "That's right, we didn't really get to the introductions stage last time, did we?"

"Not quite," Bubonic agrees, eyes sharp, mouth slanting.

God, he thinks this is fucking funny. Well, Tommy thinks viciously, joke's on him. If he thinks he can spook Tommy with this game, if he thinks Tommy's going to crack first, then he's got another think coming.

"I'm Tommy," Tommy says, low, leaning in a little; and he locks eyes with Bubonic, lifts the drink Bubonic bought him to his mouth, and knocks the whole thing back without looking away.

Tommy keeps up the pretense of waiting at the bar for a deliberately uneven thirty-six minutes before finally confiding in "Charlie" that he thinks he's been stood up. Bubonic smiles that lopsided mocking smile at him, and leans in.

"His loss. He doesn't know what he's missing," he murmurs in Tommy's ear, and Tommy has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to suppress the reaction he _wants_ to have to Bubonic pressing that close to him, the shiver of—of distaste. It can't be anything else.

They've lost track of whose round it is. They each buy a couple drinks, and end up taking them to a table. The tables are tall, meant for standing rather than sitting, and Bubonic doesn't stand across from Tommy. Their shoulders, their elbows, press together. Bubonic's hand keeps brushing the back of Tommy's, when he reaches down to pick up another drink. Tommy's skin feels electrified—crawling, obviously. Tommy's hyperaware of every motion Bubonic makes, every shift of his weight—because he knows it's Bubonic, because he's aware of exactly how dangerous Bubonic can be.

It should be worse than it is. It should be excruciating. But the thing is, Tommy's always loved undercover work; he's always loved the tension of it, the uncertainty, the way it's always an inch from going wrong. He loves having to think on his feet, and he loves taking risks, and he loves having to figure out exactly what to say, what to do, to spin it out just a little further—to keep it going.

And it's never been like this before. Trust Bubonic to come up with a way to twist Tommy up even tighter: the fucked-up doubled pretense of it, that Tommy knows but is acting like he doesn't, that Bubonic knows he knows, that they're toying with each other and they're both equally aware of it.

Bubonic never loses that air of sharp-eyed amusement. Every time Tommy looks at him, he's already looking first, watching. Tommy spares half a thought to wonder whether he hacked into IRL's security systems before he showed up, whether he's jacked in and recording all of this from five different angles. Whether he's going to play it back later, watch himself touching Tommy and Tommy bearing it every time, because like hell is Tommy going to fold first.

Bubonic escalates with a systematic precision. And with those eyes on him, waiting for a reaction, waiting for him to crack, Tommy refuses to do less than keep up every step of the way.

Their thighs touch under the table. Tommy doesn't move away. He smiles at Bubonic's sly remarks, each of the increasingly bold lines "Charlie" is trying out on him. He leans in closer. Earns himself a brief but intoxicating jolt of spiteful glee, the one time he manages to startle Bubonic visibly—at least judging by the way his eyes widen when Tommy casually reaches up to brush a stray bit of Bubonic's hair back out of his face. Serves him fucking right, Tommy thinks.

Except, of course, Bubonic isn't exactly the type to quail in the face of a challenge. His hand on Tommy's hip is a shock, a hot weight Tommy can't let himself squirm out from under; and then, fractionally at first, it starts to wander. Tommy's managing to contribute something to the conversation, probably. But he isn't sure what, because it feels like every ounce of attention he has to give is split squarely between Bubonic's fucking eyes and the sensation of his hand on Tommy's ass.

Fine, Tommy finds himself thinking. Fine. If he wants to go there, then that's where they'll fucking go. He's not going to shake Tommy now.

So it's Bubonic's fault, is the point. It's Bubonic's fault, that Tommy turns toward him—dislodges his hand briefly, so that it trails over Tommy's hip, so that his fingertips may or may not brush Tommy's fly for half a second, as Tommy moves—and grips him by the back of the neck, and says into his ear, "You want to maybe go somewhere a little quieter, Charlie?"

He's not going to say yes, obviously. He can't. He's been bluffing his way through this whole thing, but now Tommy's called him on it, and he's going to have to—

"I'd love to," Bubonic says, against Tommy's jaw, and hooks two fingers in Tommy's belt loop; lets his thumb drop down and find the shape of Tommy's cock behind his fly, and that's the moment Tommy realizes he's already half-hard.

Tommy only figures out where they're going when they're already three-quarters of the way there—when the door Bubonic's tugging him through turns out to lead to a metal staircase that goes down into the street out back of IRL.

This is it. This is right where Bubonic set up that guy to beat Tommy's face in. And then stopped by to mock him for it afterward, while Tommy was still busy lying there half-conscious and bleeding all over the pavement.

"Jesus," Tommy mutters. "You've got to be kidding me—"

Bubonic's smile gets sharper. He steps down a stair, and pulls Tommy along with him. "What's that?"

Right. Almost gave the game away. Almost cut the legs out from under whatever the fuck they're doing here.

"You've got to be kidding me," Tommy repeats, more lightly, though he can't be bothered to cut the edge of frustration out of it entirely. It's fine. It fits the scenario: he's impatient for—for Charlie. "I really didn't have you pegged as an 'alley out back' kind of guy."

"Well," Bubonic says, and tilts his head. "We've only just started getting to know each other, Tommy."

And fuck, jesus. He never calls Tommy that. He's never called Tommy that, or at least not in any of the videos, any of the recordings Tommy's got stowed away in the case file. Was there another time? Tommy can't quite remember for sure.

He shoves Bubonic another step, two, three, until they're on level ground again. And then, suddenly, Bubonic's using that grip on Tommy's belt loop, leveraging that control over Tommy's center of gravity to turn Tommy sharply—to shove him up against the wall at the base of the stairs. Tommy takes the impact across the shoulder blades, breath catching in his throat, just barely managing to restrain the reflexive urge to push back; and fuck, he wishes he could tell himself that definitely had not made him harder, but he really can't.

Shit.

Bubonic holds him there with a hand braced just above his hips, thumb dipping beneath the waist of Tommy's jeans, and grips him by the jaw with the other—firmly. Harder than Tommy would've expected from Charlie; but just about right for Bubonic, Tommy thinks dimly.

He braces himself against it with a forearm to Bubonic's chest, free hand in a fist at his side, pressed into the wall. It doesn't matter what his dick thinks is happening here. He's ready for whatever it is Bubonic's actually going to do next. He can handle some taunting, and if Bubonic's going to take a swing at him, that'll just give Tommy the excuse to subdue him, cuff him, take him down to the station on a spurious charge for assault or disorderly conduct or something.

It would be a pleasure, even. Face to face, Bubonic making Tommy bleed with his own two hands instead of sending some stranger to do it by proxy. No middleman, not this time. Just them.

But Bubonic doesn't hit him.

He cocks his head, and sways in close, pressing himself hard against Tommy's guarding forearm. Tommy doesn't flinch, doesn't blink; Bubonic doesn't look away.

And then does, because his gaze has flickered down to—to Tommy's mouth.

"Exactly how far are you going to let me go, I wonder?" he murmurs, deceptively soft. He presses a fingertip hard into the joint of Tommy's jaw, and Tommy moves with the sudden pain of it, lips parting—Bubonic's eyes sharpen, and then he moves, too.

It's not a good kiss. It's not slow, and it's not careful. It hurts. Bubonic keeps his hand where it is, gripping Tommy's jaw, forcing his mouth open; he bites at Tommy's mouth, drags Tommy's lip between his teeth, shoves his tongue past Tommy's like he wants it to fill Tommy's whole throat, like he wants Tommy to suffocate on it.

Tommy chokes on a noise—a protest. Of course it would have been a protest. He's still got a hand free; he catches Bubonic's shoulder, digs his fingertips in hard enough to bruise. He's going to shove Bubonic off him. He's going to demand to know what the hell Bubonic thinks he's doing. He's—he's going to.

He just hasn't quite gotten around to it by the time Bubonic breaks away from him. And if Tommy finds himself straining into the iron grip Bubonic's got on his jaw, well, that's because he's about to twist out from under it.

"You know," Tommy hears himself say, and then swallows at the way it sounds, the hoarse rawness of his voice.

Bubonic raises an eyebrow. His mouth is reddening. Tommy shouldn't be looking at it. "That you know?" he inquires. "Yes, Detective Calligan, I do," and fuck, Tommy's skin really shouldn't be sparking hotter for that than it did for _Tommy_ a minute ago. "I must say, you're even more stubborn than I'd expected. But then you always have made these little games of ours such a pleasure."

"Fuck you," Tommy bites out.

"I'd have assumed the order of the evening would be more along the lines of putting me into that pair of handcuffs you've got in your pocket—because I'm well aware you aren't happy to see me." Bubonic smiles, and this time it really is him, not Charlie: nothing harmless or amiable about it. It's small, and sharp, and very, very cold. "Though I think I could be forgiven for having gotten the wrong impression," he adds, and doesn't look away from Tommy's face as he slides his thumb down further still, catches the waist of Tommy's briefs against his thumbnail, and shit, fuck.

He's right, obviously. It's over, the shared illusion dispelled, and Tommy can't even decide which one of them's to blame for it. There _is_ a pair of handcuffs in Tommy's pocket, and he should get them out right now and use them. Bubonic's practically fucking daring him to.

Tommy swallows again, flexes his hand where it's still curled around Bubonic's shoulder—moves it to grip Bubonic by the nape of the neck, thumb at the side of his throat, that messy curling hair brushing his knuckles.

He's going to use that grip to push Bubonic to the side, to turn and shove _him_ into the wall. Of course he is.

"Or," Bubonic murmurs after a moment, barely over a whisper, "perhaps it was the right impression, Detective Calligan."

"Don't," Tommy says, but too late. Bubonic's still holding him by the face with one hand, but the other isn't at the waist of Tommy's jeans anymore; Bubonic drops it down to press his knuckles firmly against the shape of Tommy's cock through the denim, and Tommy's hips jerk helplessly into it, his hand tightening on the back of Bubonic's neck as he bites down a noise he really doesn't want to make where Bubonic can hear him.

He ought to take Bubonic down to the precinct. He needs to. But he doesn't _want_ to, and he knows it, and that's the part that's going to screw him right now.

That's never what he's wanted, not really. He's been chasing Bubonic all this time because he wants to catch him; except whenever Tommy imagined it finally happening, it was just him. It wasn't Shaw, it wasn't Cyber Crimes. It's never been about getting Bubonic into an interrogation room. It's been about getting Bubonic into an interrogation room _with Tommy_. In Tommy's head, there's never anyone else.

He doesn't want to take Bubonic anywhere, doesn't want to turn him over to anybody, doesn't want to lose sight of him for a single fucking second. He wanted to catch Bubonic, but he wanted it to be exactly like this, right now: face to face. No one else.

Just them.

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Fuck," he breathes, and Bubonic presses harder, turns his hand and rubs his fingertips up and down the taut outline of Tommy's dick, denim rasping, friction grating hot along Tommy's nerves. God, that burns. Tommy tries to twist away from it, except there's nowhere to go with the wall at his back, with Bubonic's hand pinning him there. He's stuck just squirming in place, panting, desperate.

"I underestimated you, Detective Calligan. I didn't think you'd care to make the stakes any more personal than they already were."

Tommy does laugh, then, even if it's ragged, breathless. "Stakes," he repeats, and shakes his head. "You called this a game, and the thing is, I was, too. But that isn't what it is, is it? That isn't what any of it's been." He makes himself meet Bubonic's eyes again, even though that's about the last thing he wants to do while he says this. "You aren't toying with me. This isn't fun for you. How can it be? We both know why you're doing this. It's not a game, and you'd never treat it like one."

Bubonic goes still. "Is that so?"

And he's not giving a single thing away, but that's fine. He doesn't have to. "Yeah," Tommy says. "This is punishment." He swallows. "I hurt you. I wasn't trying to, but I did. I hurt you more than anyone else has ever hurt you before. And you've been trying to hurt me that much, but no matter what you've done to me, it hasn't added up to enough."

"What an interesting theory, Detective Calligan." Bubonic's tone is ice, dripping with poisonous condescension. "And now you're going to tell me this won't work, I suppose. That no matter what I do to you while I've got you up against this wall, it won't change what you did—"

"It won't," Tommy agrees. "But you can do it anyway, if you want."

Bubonic falls silent.

"I won't stop you," Tommy adds, and he wants it to sound firm, sure, resolute, but it's a half-strangled whisper instead. "Come on. Come on, do it."

Bubonic doesn't move.

"Come on," Tommy says, louder. "Come on. Don't you want to? Isn't this what you were looking for? Weren't you hoping to fuck me up tonight? Come on, goddammit—"

He hadn't even gotten written up for it, when it happened. A dead body in a holding cell, his goddamn responsibility even if she'd been the one to knot the shoelaces, and the board of inquiry couldn't so much as manage to find him at fault for it. Shaw hadn't, either.

But it was his fault. He knows it was his fault; and so does Bubonic.

Just them.

That's the thing no one else understands, the thing that's bound them to each other all this time. They both know who's to blame. They both know who ruined whose life first.

Tommy's eyes are hot, stinging, blurring. He lets them fall shut, and waits.

And of all the things he might have been expecting to break the heavy stillness that's seized them, Bubonic's thumb sweeping over to press hard into his lower lip wasn't one of them.

"Unfortunately for both of us," Bubonic murmurs, "I'm not sure it's quite that simple anymore."

Tommy has enough time to draw half a ragged breath, startled—and then Bubonic's on him again, pressing Tommy's mouth open with his tongue. Suddenly Bubonic's hand is moving in a new direction: catching the button of Tommy's jeans and working it open, and then the zipper of his fly, and Tommy makes a sharp helpless sound into Bubonic's mouth and can feel the way Bubonic's lips twist, half a smug smile forming, before he goes back to biting Tommy's tongue.

Tommy already gave up on holding him off; Tommy's forearm isn't braced anymore, but trapped uselessly between them. _Unfortunately for both of us_ , Tommy thinks hazily, and shoves his hand down just past Bubonic's, and holy fuck, he was right. Bubonic's hard, too.

Bubonic's hard, and he doesn't stop Tommy from feeling roughly for the shape of him. He doesn't stop Tommy from touching his hip, his ass, or skimming that hand up under his t-shirt—and then he does something particularly vicious with his thumb just underneath the head of Tommy's cock, and Tommy tenses and reflexively digs his nails into the small of Bubonic's back. Bubonic surges into him, full-body, tearing away from Tommy's mouth to gasp and curse into Tommy's ear, and Tommy's pretty sure it's not because he's mad.

So even after he's got Bubonic's pants open, he doesn't stop using the edge of a fingernail now and then. Their strokes match up, and then don't, and then do again; every now and then the head of Tommy's dick brushes a wrist and he doesn't even know whether it's his or Bubonic's. Finally it occurs to him dimly that maybe there's no need for their knuckles to keep bumping. He opens up his fingers, rolls his hips, and if Bubonic's hand on his cock was good, the entire length of Bubonic shoved up against it is even better, jesus. He gasps against Bubonic's mouth and blindly closes his grip around both of them, and if he catches two of Bubonic's fingers between his own when he does it, well, Bubonic doesn't pull them free.

When he comes at last, it's almost a surprise. He's felt like he was on the edge of it for what seems like forever, every single thing Bubonic does to him shoving him closer—but they aren't even kissing anymore, just kind of sharing air, openmouthed and faces touching, when Bubonic catches a lip against the stubble on Tommy's jaw, turns into it and presses teeth to the skin, and jesus, that's it, Tommy's gone.

Bubonic doesn't let up for a second, even while Tommy's still shuddering his way through the tail end of it; he's still got his hand closed around both of them along with Tommy, wetter and stickier now where Tommy came all over their fingers, and he drags Tommy's slack hand along with his own until Tommy's got it together. And fuck, it's way too much when Tommy's already come, his softening dick trapped against Bubonic between their palms. But Bubonic looks intent, agonized, eyes squeezed shut, and Tommy wants to get him off more than anything else in the world.

"Come on," he says into Bubonic's ear, and drags his thumbnail up the underside of Bubonic's cock; and Bubonic's hand closes so tightly around their dicks that it _throbs_ , jesus, but thankfully that's all it takes to tip Bubonic over the edge, too.

They stay like that for a minute, just catching their breath, steadying themselves. And then Bubonic moves—wipes his hand with casual unconcern along the thigh of Tommy's jeans, and Tommy's going to give him a dirty look for it but can't, when Bubonic wouldn't see it if he did. Bubonic's not looking at him at all.

Tommy feels a cold weight settle into his gut.

Bubonic steps away from him, tugs his pants back into place and closes them up neatly over himself, the mess probably uncomfortable but almost entirely contained, and suddenly it's hard to tell anything happened at all. Tommy can see a flush in his face, can spot the wet red marks of Tommy's teeth on his swollen mouth—can guess there's still a handful of crescent moons dug into the soft skin at the small of his back. But that's only because he knows where to look.

He jerks his eyes away and concentrates on tucking himself in, doesn't let himself rush to zip up, like the deliberate contrast means anything except that Bubonic's a step ahead of him, just like always.

"See you next year, Detective Calligan," Bubonic says evenly.

Tommy closes his eyes. "Looking forward to it," he makes himself say.

A footstep. Another.

A year. Jesus.

Tommy bites his lip, buttons his jeans, and clears his throat, and then takes a quick stride away from the wall. "Charlie, wait."

Bubonic stops, and looks over his shoulder.

"Let me give you my number," Tommy says, and it's too soft, too hoarse, but it's the best he can do. "In case—in case you're at IRL again sometime soon."

Bubonic's staring at him. And shit, that was stupid. As if they can pull the masks on again just like that—

"I've got it already," Bubonic murmurs slowly, and then, very deliberately, "Tommy."

Tommy swallows.

"Thanks for the offer. I'll—keep it in mind." And Bubonic lifts a hand, takes a half-step toward him: catches a thumb against the curve of Tommy's lower lip, just for a second.

Then he lets go, turns around and walks away. He doesn't look back again, but Tommy keeps watching anyway, until he gets to the end of the block and turns, and then he's gone.

But maybe, Tommy lets himself think, not for long.


End file.
